


You fit me, Sherlock Holmes

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Burn, but they get there in the end, it takes them a while, questionable science, these two dorks try to realize that they're meant to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels natural when John slips under the covers as well, and scoots in closer to Sherlock. As Sherlock's arms envelope him tightly, he breathes a sigh of relief.They don't speak and it only takes John five minutes before he starts to drift off. His breathing gets deep and he feels oblivion starting to crawl in on him at the edges. His inhibitions are almost gone as he whispers, "I've missed you," into Sherlock's skin.</p><p>Sherlock doesn't reply immediately. Instead he removes a strand of hair from John's forehead.<br/>John is almost completely lost to the world when Sherlock whispers back, "I've missed you, too."</p><p>--</p><p>An unfortunate series of events leads to John accepting being a part of Sherlock's study in physical intimacy. As the days pass by, John realizes he might be in for more than he bargained for. He doesn't entirely mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You fit me, Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> This was born from a late-night Wikipedia adventure into the biology and hormones section, but as such things go, it turned into being mostly just fluff, sprinkled with a little bit of angst. Unbeta'ed, but I think you'll survive.
> 
> ——
> 
> WARNING per 2016: this is very pre-s3 all around, and probably does not entirely get the complexity of their situation. Also it's cliched, and one of my first works, but still quite cute at times. Read at own risk, basically.

It starts when Sherlock gets a cold and John, in frustration over his constant sniffling, orders him to go and buy some nasal spray. After a dramatic sulk, that John has learned to ignore a long time ago, Sherlock goes, and when he comes back an hour later it is with a filled plastic bag in hand. John worries for a moment about what else Sherlock has bought, but decides that it can't possibly be as bad as that time he bought a living frog in a pet shop to dissect, and ignores it.

That, it turns out, was a bad decision. The sniffling stops but instead the flat slowly fills with bottles of nasal spray, some empty, some still full and leaking. John comes home from the surgery one evening and almost falls over as he steps on one of the empty bottles, and that's when he decides he's had it.

"Sherlock!" he yells into the flat, figuring he must be there somewhere. The flat doesn't smell of anything but the sterile scent of the spray, so he figures the kitchen, at least, is intact. 

Sherlock's huff can be heard from somewhere near his bedroom. John stomps down there, determined not to let Sherlock persuade him out of his endeavor to stop this madness.

Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on his bed, his laptop on his lap, and two bottles of the spray next to him. He doesn't even look up to acknowledge John as he stands in the doorway. Instead he absentmindedly grabs the spray and inhales it. John wants to take the thing and throw it forcefully out the window. Or perhaps just into Sherlock's face so he can have a nasal-spray mark on those ridiculous cheekbones for the next week. Of course he does none of those things. Instead he sighs and wonders if he's going to explode some day.

"John, do you really need to be standing there. If you have something to say, just say it," Sherlock says. John wants to throttle him.

"Yes," he says, not sure to what. "What is the deal with those dumb sprays?" he demands. His frustration slips out as he puts too much emphasis on the word dumb, and Sherlock looks up at him, finally. He narrows his eyes in the way he does when he's trying to deduce someone. John lets him. Really, what else is he going to do?

"You were the one to tell me to buy them," Sherlock says, returning his attention to his laptop.

"When you had a cold. You've been well for over a week now."

"They have beneficial trades," Sherlock says, dismissing John's complaint.

"What does that even mean? They clear your nose, honestly, you've never had trouble breathing before. For God's sake, Sherlock. They're everywhere," John begs. Sherlock's attention returns to him.

"But, John-"

"They have to go, Sherlock," John interrupts him before Sherlock can convince him otherwise.

"But they're not for clearing your nose, I bought the wrong ones. They're oxytocin nasal sprays."

For a moment John is confused, but then the reality of what Sherlock just said catches up to him, and he laughs.

“Are you serious?” he asks. “You’re, what, addicted to those sprays because of the hormone they release.”

“I’m not addicted,” Sherlock says. 

“You know they nickname it ‘the love hormone’ right?” John teases, and ducks when Sherlock throws a pillow after him. He finds it hard not to laugh.

“Shut up,” Sherlock pouts, and John laughs this time, and picks up the pillow from the floor to throw it back to Sherlock. 

“At least stop littering the flat with your addiction, would you?” he says, and chuckles as Sherlock throws the pillow after him again. He ducks out of the room this time, but leaves the door open behind him. 

\--

The next day the nasal sprays are gone, but John knows better than to be relieved yet. He’d be genuinely surprised if it ended up being that easy. 

He’s sitting in his armchair that evening, a cup of tea next to him and a book open on his lap. The book, however, doesn’t quite manage to hold his concentration when Sherlock is standing by the window and playing the violin beautifully. For a moment John simply gives into the calm of it all, and watches as Sherlock’s fingers dance over the neck of the instrument.

As preciously mentioned: Not that easy. This makes itself evident when Sherlock suddenly stops playing and turns to him with a flair. 

“Oxytocin is released during physical intimacy,” he states, like they'd been having a conversation already. 

“Yes,” John agrees. “So?”

"Oxytocin boosts your immune system and relieves pain. It inspires positive thinking and reduces stress. It helps women to relax so they can better breast feed their babies and bond with them. All of that lowers the risk of getting a heart disease," Sherlock rattles off.

"Yes," John repeats himself.

Sherlock stares at him as if willing John to understand the rest of the conversation that has already happened in Sherlock's own brain. John thinks he has a clue.  
"I'm not going to cuddle with you," he says. "And I'm not going to find someone else to cuddle with you either."

Sherlock sighs, puts the violin down, and circles in on John, throwing up his hands like John is being unreasonable. 

"John!" he complains.

"No," John says firmly.

"But it's science, John. We can conclude a study on whether or not sociopaths react the same way to physical intimacy as other, dull people."

John can't name all the things he finds wrong with that sentence. He closes his book and puts it on the table next to the chair, before straightening, getting ready to have this argument. Experience tells him he won't get peace before he has either shot down Sherlock completely or given in. Well. Experience also tells him that it's usually the latter that happens. But what is John if not a persistent man, so he keeps trying.

"First of all," he says, "you are not a sociopath. You never have been and you never will be. Sorry to break it to you." 

Sherlock just stares at him, annoyed, his face screwing up with discontent. John, unmoved, continues:

"Second of all, including me in the group you call 'other, dull people' won't make me more likely to help you. And third of all, you can call it cuddles, it won't kill you."

"I wasn't including you in the group of 'other, dull people', I was talking about the people this have been tested on before. Honestly John, do you really think I would live with you if I found you dull." 

John is, for a beat, flattered, before he remembers that he is supposed to shut Sherlock down.

"I'm still not going to sleep with you." 

Sherlock gets a crease between his eyes and he looks confused.

"I wasn't talking about sex," he says, the word sounding weird and foreign in his mouth. John almost jumps in his seat at the word. His mind wanders all too quickly when Sherlock and sex is mentioned together.

"Neither was I," he says, willing himself not to blush. He prays for Sherlock not to notice the way he looks down and clears his throat, but he does, obviously.

"People would talk," John says, grasping at his go-to excuse whenever he fells uncomfortably warm in Sherlock's presence. He almost manages to convince himself that this is his main worry. Sherlock sighs.

"And they would know, how?" he says, not even pretending that the excuse works on him. John can't really come up with an answer to that. He wonders, not for the first time, if he should throttle Sherlock. He could also hit him so hard in the head that he forgets this conversation. Perhaps he'd rather hit himself in the head to escape this memory.

"I'm not gay," he says then, and curses himself when Sherlock's gaze closes in on him. 

"Honestly John, are you a broken record? You always say that and that's not the point at all." 

John doesn't know if he can sigh in relief or if he should still be worried.

"Besides, if you're not gay, then that's one less problem, right? It wouldn't lead to anything else," Sherlock continues. He smirks before he speaks again:

"Unless, of course, it's not about you being gay at all and you are actually worried it might lead to something else."

Okay. Worried, then.

"No, of course not, don't be silly," John says, but he knows that Sherlock will be able to read his fiddling hands and his blush as a counter argument. Well done, John, he thinks. You've really managed to throw him off the track, haven't you. You're not acting like a crushing teenage boy at all.

"Then, there should be no problem, should there?" Sherlock says, feigning total indifference, but John knows the look Sherlock gets on his face when he knows he's won, and it's there now.

He vaguely remembers being very opposed to the idea, and wanting to refuse. He knows he's been manipulated badly, but he doesn't know what to do about it. In the end he mumbles, "Fine," and hides his face in his book again. That doesn't stop him from seeing the look of victory passing over Sherlock's features out of the corner of his eyes. John wonders why that look makes him want to kiss it away.

\--

"The study will stretch over 30 days. We'll aim for thirty minutes of cuddles per day, preferably in one streak," Sherlock says, bursting into the bathroom, where John is brushing his teeth, without knocking. He supposes that in light of recent developments it would be ridiculous to get annoyed at Sherlock for such a little thing as invading his privacy while maintaining dental hygiene. He gets annoyed anyway.

"Could you knock?" he exclaims, but Sherlock only sits down on the edge of their bathtub, dismissing the idea of knocking with a gesture of his hand. He has changed into his pyjamas pants and a T-shirt so he might actually be planning on going to bed tonight. He's wearing the blue, silky dressing gown. John thinks it looks very touchable. The dressing gown, of course.

"We'll see if the cuddling encourages other kinds of physical contact," Sherlock says neutrally. 

John almost chokes on the toothpaste in his mouth, and tries to cover it up by spitting in the sink. He rinses his mouth and tries to tell his heart to stop beating so fast.

"What do you mean, other kinds of physical contact?" he asks when he feels he has his voice under control. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"God John, does your libido have to colour everything you hear?" he asks. John is not sure that actually makes sense.

"I was talking about physical closeness during the day. You know, standing closer, hugging, things in that general direction."

"Right," John says. Sherlock is right, of course, John really ought to get some control of his libido.

"Okay. We'll start tomorrow," Sherlock states, before rising and walking gracefully out the bathroom again. John hears his bedroom door slam behind him, Sherlock dismissing all manners as usual and not bothering to keep quiet so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson downstairs.

John grabs onto the edge of the sink and supports himself against it, staring at the floor and trying to make sense of his thoughts. He looks up and grimaces at himself in the mirror; what has he just gotten himself into?

\--

Day 1

Both John and Sherlock avoid the prospect of the cuddling for the entire day although none of them actually have anything to do. Sherlock checks his blog for cases a total of eight times and works at the microscope in the kitchen in between. John finishes some paperwork and reads that book he's been trying to finish for months but never did. It's amazing, John thinks, how much you can stop procrastinating when you run into something you want to procrastinate more.

It's nine in the afternoon before Sherlock enters the living room and, instead of going to sit in his chair, goes to the couch and sits down there. He suggestively leaves a spot free, as opposed to the way he usually makes sure no one else could fit there even if they tried. John looks up at him and tries not to flush.

He gets up and stands before Sherlock, eyeing the sofa sceptically.

"So," he says.

"So," Sherlock repeats, surprisingly uncertain. The frustrated part of John is secretly thrilled that this isn't much easier for Sherlock then it is for him.

"How do you want to do this?" he asks, not wanting to make this one bit easier for Sherlock if he can avoid it. He might be acting a little unfairly, mean even, he thinks. He decides he doesn't care.

"You're the expert," Sherlock tries.

"It was your idea," John retorts. They end up staring at each other with annoyed frustration. Not unusual, that.

In the end Sherlock sighs deeply and dramatically before lying down, scooting in as far against the back of the couch as possible. When John doesn't react Sherlock yanks him down until he is lying on the sofa too.

"There," Sherlock says, sounding annoyed. If John looks at it objectively it's actually pretty amusing, so he tries to distance himself from the whole thing as much as possible. A skill he has required through many strange scenarios happening around Sherlock that he simply could not deal with without extracting himself from the situation.

They cuddle almost aggressively, and John finds it impossible to relax. Neither of them speak, so after a moment John finds the TV remote and turns on the television. He tries to focus on that instead of Sherlock's warm body behind him. Unsuccessfully. The skin where him and Sherlock are touching feels burning. John's entire body buzzes with strange anticipation. John is worried about his own body's reaction should he just relax into Sherlock's body, so he stays tense the entire time.

After exactly thirty minutes Sherlock slips out quietly behind John, and goes to his own bedroom. As John hears the door close he exhales the breath he's been holding, and feels miserable.

Day 2 – 4

John spends the night of the second day worrying, unable to fall asleep. The entire experience of cuddling turned out to go horribly, and John can't help but to dread the next thirty days. He's worried it will cause a strain in his and Sherlock's friendship instead of strengthening it. After all, what kinds of friends are you if you can't even stand each other's touch.

Turns out John didn't have to worry. When he crawls down the stairs the next morning, Sherlock is already whirling around, gathering things around the room. He retrieves their gun from its drawer and throws it to John without looking. John supposes he’ll never manage to teach Sherlock about gun safety. 

"Have we got a case?" John asks.

"Remarkable observation," Sherlock replies, pushing past John to thunder down the stairs in a hurry. John follows him, of course. He can't remember a time he didn't. Sherlock throws out his magical cab-arm once outside and a cab appears immediately and pulls up to the curb next to them. As it does, Sherlock turns to John:

"Triple murders John, all of them happening at abandoned food factories. There are no connection between the people or the factories. It's Christmas!" he exclaims. John can't help but to grin fondly at Sherlock's back as he crawls inside the cab before John. As much as his childish behaviour can be annoying sometimes, there's nothing better to John than when Sherlock gets so uninhibitedly gleeful about something. Even when it's murders.

The case turns out to be of the more difficult kind and it takes them three days to solve. Sherlock doesn't sleep, so neither does John except when he can sneak in a little nap while Sherlock gets lost in his mind palace. Other times he provides fresh supplies of tea and sandwiches, trying to get Sherlock to take care of himself while working. All thoughts of cuddling are forgotten in the haze of it all.

Even though John finds himself absolutely exhausted there is nothing better to him than when Sherlock discovers something new and they're off running again, chasing criminals down the cold London streets at night. Sherlock's excitement rubs off on John, and the danger makes him feel alive, and he loves it.

He still needs his sleep though, so once the case is solved - a man had suffered killing urges and had dropped off his random victims in food factories in an attempt to create a misleading pattern - John is almost too exhausted to crawl up the stairs. He was hit in his bad shoulder while in combat with the killer, and his bad leg is aching from the strain and the weather.

Sherlock comes up behind him and puts a hand to his lumbar, supporting him on his shaking legs.

"You okay?" he asks, and even though he's asking it because he knows it's expected, John feels grateful.

"Yeah, fine," he says. "It was a good case."

"It demanded some brainwork," Sherlock says.

"Oh, come off it," John smiles. "You thought it was a brilliant case. You loved it."  
Sherlock's face almost slits in half as one of his uninhibited, post-case grins appear on his face. John thinks he could live for those grins.

"I did," Sherlock admits. For a beat they manage to behave before they look at each other and break into a heap of giggles, the adrenaline of the case still soaring through them. John clutches his stomach and feels so grateful with happiness right there, in the middle of their stairway.

John realises that Sherlock's hand is still resting on the low of his back, warm through John's shirt. He looks up into Sherlock's eyes, and they watch him back, full of glee. John's eyes dart to Sherlock's lips, those beautiful lips, and he suddenly feels the desire to kiss the grin off of them. He looks back into Sherlock's eyes and a beat of understanding passes between them. The decisive moment is upon them.

But John is scared, so he snaps himself out of it and clears his throat. Sherlock's grins subdues.

"I'm knackered. I'm going to bed," John says.

"Okay." A moment passes where they watch each other before John takes a step up the stairway towards his room.

"Right. Goodnight," he says. Sherlock nods.

"Goodnight."

John goes to his room and hates the world and Sherlock for always letting it end like that. He falls asleep with the memory of Sherlock's hand on his back still fresh in his mind.

Day 5

The next day passes in their usual post-case state of bliss. The tension that comes into Sherlock's shoulders when he's went too long without a case is gone for now, and by result John is also a lot more relaxed.

John makes himself and Sherlock cups of tea when the clock strikes four in the afternoon, and he settles down with his own on the sofa to watch some telly. Sherlock is doing something in the bathroom that John has no interest in knowing about, so he puts Sherlock's cup on the sofa table in front of him.

John's body is still coming off the adrenals high and exhaustion of the days before, so he's dozing off when Sherlock comes into the room. John grunts a hello but otherwise doesn't react to Sherlock's appearance in the doorway. Sherlock's eyes fall on the cup of tea on the table that belongs to him. He walks over to retrieve it, but stops when he holds it in his hand and watches John.

"What?" John asks. Sherlock puts his weight on both of his legs separately so he is moving back and forth.

"Can I, err ... join?" he asks, sounding and looking uncertain. John thinks this would be a good time to get back at Sherlock for including him in this silly study, but in a weird turn of events he doesn't want to. Sherlock looks way too vulnerable already, so John takes mercy on him. He scoots back a bit so there's enough space for Sherlock to lie down next to him.

John is surprised about how awkwardly Sherlock is as he lies down, attempting to create space between them so their skin doesn't touch. Perhaps it is John's sleepy mind that makes him sigh fondly and put an arm around Sherlock's upper chest to pull him closer against his own body. Sherlock stiffens a little at first, but quickly adapts and settles into John's body behind him.

John focuses on the telly and tries not to think about Sherlock's lush bottom being pushed into his own groin or the way Sherlock's curls tickle his sensitive neck like a feathery kiss or the way Sherlock's burgundy scent fills his nostrils. He resists the urge to press his lips into Sherlock's dark curls or against his warm neck where it smells musky. Instead he makes do with Sherlock letting John's arm stay across his chest. They watch the telly together in silence and neither of them notice when the clock has moved thirty minutes.

Day 13

It becomes a routine of sorts. John will settle down on the couch sometime during the day, usually after making two cups of tea and putting them on the coffee table. When Sherlock eventually notices he will quietly slip in next to John, sometimes putting his arms around him, sometimes waiting for John to put his arms around Sherlock. They'll watch telly like that for approximately thirty minutes, but they're not exactly precise about that. The more days that pass, the more thirty minutes will become an hour, ninety minutes, even two hours on one particularly cold Wednesday.

The physical intimacy does in fact carry on over to their everyday life. John finds himself standing a lot closer to Sherlock when they're at crime scenes, and it is now a regular occurrence for their elbows to bump together when they walk side by side. When John walks past Sherlock sitting at his microscope in the kitchen, his hand will linger between Sherlock's shoulder blades for a second. Their fingers even touch whenever they hand each other stuff.  
They don't talk about it, but then again they never were good at putting emotions into words. The progress happens in silence, and it fits them both perfectly.

\--

On the thirteenth day Mycroft walks into the living room just before four o' clock, and John, who is entering the same room from the kitchen, puts the tea-cups on the dinner table instead of the coffee one. He doesn't know why he feels the need to keep the study they're technically doing a secret, but it seems almost too intimate to dangle out in the open, in front of Mycroft of all people.

"Hello Mycroft," he greets simply. He has long since learned not to get annoyed at the other Holmes brother. Both because it never leads to anything anyway, and because Sherlock does it just fine on his own.

John walks to his chair, bringing the teacup, and sits down in it. 

"Hello John," Mycroft says. "You wouldn't happen to know where Sherlock is, would you?"

John shrugs. He's somewhere in the flat, that's all he knows. As it turns out they don't have to go fetch him because he enters the room a moment after. He's already frowning upon entrance so chances are he's deduced Mycroft's presence.

"Hello, dear brother. What brings you here?" he asks. He goes to fetch his cup of tea from the dinner table and then, instead of sitting in his own chair, he sits down on the armrest of John's. He supports himself by putting a hand on the back of the chair behind John's neck.  
Mycroft's face contorts in an expression of surprise and his eyes widen slightly. It takes a lot to surprise Mycroft, John knows it, so he suddenly becomes painfully aware of the heat radiating off of Sherlock's thigh next to him and hand behind him. He takes a sip of his tea in an attempt to disguise it.

Of course Sherlock sees it as his mission in life to make Mycroft uncomfortable, no matter the costs, so he rebels against his surprised look by putting his hand to the back of John's neck. John can't help the slight jump he does, and a flush has never crept up his neck to his cheeks faster. He's going to need a lot of tea to disguise any of this.

After Mycroft initial surprise wears off, he sends John a smile somewhere in between being smug, sleek, grateful and congratulating. John finds it a bit unnerving.

"I see the nature of your relationship has changed. I can't say I'm surprised," Mycroft says. John tries not to choke or blush even more fiercely.

"No! No, we're not... Sherlock, seriously?" John ends up saying. Except Sherlock doesn't have eyes for John at the moment. Instead he is watching Mycroft intensely, his eyes flickering across his brother's face. Deducing him, probably. Or attempting to. Mycroft, then, doesn't have eyes for Sherlock but instead raises his brows at John in question. John feels most of all like a lab rat, and he ponders the idea of just getting up and leaving. After pushing Sherlock to the floor to teach him a lesson.

"Sherlock is conducting a study in physical intimacy," he says instead, by a way of explanation. Mycroft tilts his head as if to comment on how sharing a chair isn't exactly necessary for that. Or maybe that's just John's own thoughts.

"Okay," Mycroft says, unconvinced. "I'm here about a case I should like you to take," he continues, directed at Sherlock now.

Sherlock pretends not to care, but of course he does, and John sits in his chair and tries to make sense of his feelings while the two brothers bicker at each other.

Day 16

The room John wakes up in doesn't smell like his own. For one the laundry smells more clean, and there's no whiff of Sherlock's current experiment hanging like a warning sign in the air. The bed doesn't feel like his either, John thinks.

Then he remembers. The surgery sent him off to a conference in Amsterdam, so the reason his room doesn't feel like his own is that, in fact, it isn't. He opens his eyes and, true enough, the ceiling above him is more white than he could ever get away with pretending his own is.  
He supposes he might as well get up, and so he does.

Contrary to popular - well, John's - belief, a conference really isn't that exciting. John actually finds himself almost missing the excitement of a small kitchen explosion due to Sherlock's lack in safety. He drags himself through the day, and once he finally gets back to his hotel room and his day is over, he's just about had it with the world. He ponders the idea of actually watching some uninterrupted telly for a while.

Except, it turns out, watching uninterrupted telly has sort of lost its appeal. John keeps finding himself spacing out, his mind wandering to what Sherlock might be doing right now. It doesn't even help taking a shower. In fact that is almost worse because John's mind wanders to Sherlock even then, and he suddenly has to turn on the cold tap.

Oxytocin. That must surely be what this is about, John thinks. His body is simply complaining about the sudden decline in the hormone, and because Sherlock has been connected with it in his mind, John can't stop thinking about him. Yes. That sounds convincing.

Which is the thought that sets off the chain of events where John picks up the phone and calls room service asking for as many different kinds of chocolate as they can find. Eating chocolate makes your body release oxytocin. That should work, right? Bulletproof.

John reconsiders his medical knowledge when he, an hour later, is sitting amongst a heap of chocolate wrapping paper and a hurtful stomach on his bed, still not able to get Sherlock out of his mind. He supposes he's pathetic enough already, so actually texting Sherlock won't make the greatest difference.

'Any cases on?' he types out and sends, figuring it's the least pathetic version of the variable text messages he could send ('How are you?', 'I miss you', 'Are you unable to stop thinking about me, too?'). The reply comes surprisingly quickly.

'No cases. It's tedious. - SH' it reads. John is grateful for the last sentence, because that means he won't sound too clingy when he keeps texting.

'So is this.' he writes.

'When are you home? - SH'

John's heart warms almost dangerously when he reads that text. He feels like a ridiculous teenager with a ridiculous crush who gets ridiculously happy over Sherlock seemingly missing him too.

'Tomorrow evening' he writes. There's silence on the other end then, and John figures he got more than he expected already, and tries not to be disappointed. He has just opened another chocolate in self-pity even though he's already nauseous when his phone chirps with an incoming text.

'Can I call you? - SH' it reads. John gets chocolate on his screen with the speed in which he replies.

'Always' he types before reconsidering and pressing the back button. 'Sure' he types instead and sends it.

Moments later his phone rings. He even goes as far to not seem too eager so as to count to five before he picks it up.

"Hi," he says.

"Hello," Sherlock's voice meets him from the other end. God, that voice. A chill of pleasant goose bumps run over John’s skin as he hears it. He's in far too deep, he realises. The cuddling has gone and officially taken away the last of his almost successful denial and self-restraint. John thinks he probably should be a little worried that he likes it.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Right now I'm talking to you," Sherlock says. John laughs.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks then.

"Oh, you know," John says, trying to quickly come up with something other than devouring chocolate, because Sherlock will figure it out then. "I'm trying to watch some telly. It's pretty boring," he ends up with. Not technically untrue.

"I thought you liked watching telly," Sherlock teases him.

"Maybe I just like you interrupting it," John retorts. That's basically as good as an 'I miss you'.

"Oh." Sherlock sounds smug on the other end. John doesn't know what to say then, so a silence falls over them. It isn't actually uncomfortable. John can hear Sherlock breathing on the other end and it fells sort of like they're in some magical telephone space between their two different rooms.

"What are you watching?" Sherlock asks then. John focuses on the telly and sees that a movie is about to begin. He tells Sherlock the name of it and the channel. He can hear Sherlock moving around on the other end, and a few pieces of paper being shuffled.

"We can watch it together," Sherlock suggests after the sounds dies down. That's basically as good as an 'I miss you, too'. If John is completely honest, it's actually better, because it's so Sherlockian.

"Yes," he agrees before settling against the pillows, adjusting himself so he's in a comfortable position. Once the movie begins Sherlock starts insulting it, the writers, the actors, and everyone that might've been involved. John loves it. It almost feels like he's home. If he thinks about it, it actually feels more than 'almost' like he's home. He ponders if maybe "home" doesn't so much mean "221B" as it means "Sherlock."

It is with that thought in mind, and Sherlock's voice in his ear, that he eventually falls asleep.

Day 17

John comes home from the trip in the evening, feeling exhausted beyond belief and running purely on the promise of a nice, hot bath and a cup of tea. Sherlock is sitting in his chair when John steps into the living room. He's in his pyjamas, so John wonders if he has even been outside today. His fingers are stippled beneath his chin so John concludes that he must be lost inside his mind palace.

"Hey," he says anyway, not having energy for more. Sherlock doesn't reply, so either he doesn't feel like replying or he doesn't hear. Either way John doesn't really mind.

He turns on the kettle so the water can boil while he showers. Then he stumbles into the bathroom and gets under the shower-head, letting the warm water wash away the smell of the travel. He feels a lot more alive and like himself when he exits the bathroom.

When he steps back into the kitchen he sees a cup of steaming hot tea sitting on the counter, ready with milk and, it seems, no sugar. He throws a glance in Sherlock's direction, but he is sitting in his chair in the exact same position as before. If John didn't know how to see the tension in Sherlock's shoulders he never would've guessed that it could possibly be him that had made in. Not too long ago it would have been more reasonable to think a ghost was haunting them and had decided to be nice to John.

John takes the tea between his hands, letting it warm up his palms, and steps into the living room, dumping into his own chair across from Sherlock. They share a comfortable silence while John drinks his tea. When he finishes Sherlock looks up at him. John smiles at him, feeling oddly affectionate.

"Thank you," he says. Sherlock shrugs as a way to say 'you're welcome' without actually acknowledging that it was him who made the tea.

"Do you want to ... move to the couch?" he asks.

"I'm so tired I'll probably fall asleep and I don't want to sleep on the couch. It hurts my neck," John says.

"Oh. Well, we can skip today if you need to–"

"Or you can come up with me," John interrupts him. He then realises how that sounds very much as a come on and hurries to explain himself:

"I mean, we can do the cuddling in my bed so it doesn't matter if I fall asleep." Sherlock almost smirks.

"Sure," he says. They both get up, and John leads them up the stairs and into his own bedroom. Sherlock doesn't seem the least bit put off by being in John's room, and he crawls under the covers like it's a regular occurrence while John changes into his sleeping clothes.

It feels natural when John slips under the covers as well, and scoots in closer to Sherlock. As Sherlock's arms envelope him tightly, he breathes a sigh of relief. As crazy as it sounds, he had been missing having Sherlock close to him like this. He rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder and catches a whiff of his day-old cologne at his neck. It feels familiar, and John feels his body relax into Sherlock's.

They don't speak and it only takes John five minutes before he starts to drift off. His breathing gets deep and he feels oblivion starting to crawl in on him at the edges. His inhibitions are almost gone as he whispers, "I've missed you," into Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock doesn't reply immediately. Instead he removes a strand of hair from John's forehead.  
John is almost completely lost to the world when Sherlock whispers back, "I've missed you, too."

Day 22

His chest hurts. His legs hurt. His lungs feel like they're fighting desperately for breath. He doesn't see the hand flying towards him before he is hit smack in the face and falls to the ground. He groans. The ground smells like mud and the moisture seeps into his clothes and soaks it. Everything becomes pain. He reminds himself that this is temporary. Pain doesn't last. Eventually oblivion will envelope him and the pain will be relieved.

Except the pain doesn't stop, not even after the criminal he and Sherlock had been chasing has run off. Sherlock! John hears footsteps running towards him, and suddenly there's a body next to him and a voice in his ear.

"John? John! John, can you hear me?" John groans again and he hears Sherlock exhaling a sigh of relief.

"You're okay," Sherlock tells him. John wants to hit him. No, he's bloody well not okay. He manages to wriggle a little, even though it hurts as hell. He thinks he might have a broken rib or two. He takes a moment before he wills himself to open his eyes. The alleyway comes into view. The grey house in front of him rises into the sky. Sherlock is holding his phone to his ear. Calling after an ambulance, it seems. Once he hangs up he turns back to John and sends him a reassuring smile.

"Where does it hurt?" he asks. Everywhere, John wants to say.

"I'm fine," he says instead. He tries to sit up, but Sherlock's hands shoot out to his chest and stop him immediately.

"Don't move," he says. "And don't lie to me. You're a doctor, surely you know you're not fine." 

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock since he can't punch him in the face. He might me misplacing his anger but he doesn't really care. Sherlock doesn't even react. Instead he presses gently on John's chest, looking for the wounded place when John won't tell him himself. As Sherlock's fingers graze across John's lower rib, John winces in pain. Sherlock looks at him and raises his eyebrows smugly.

"I think you have a broken rib," he states, feigning nonchalance.

"You don't fucking say," John grumbles. He expects Sherlock to get annoyed, sure, but he doesn't expect him to get downright angry. Sherlock straightens and his expression becomes hard and unreadable, his lips slightly pursed.

"I'm not the one who hurt you. And I'm certainly not the one who was stupid enough to get myself hurt." It's John's turn to get angry, then.

"You were supposed to be right behind me, you cock!" he exclaims, wincing at the way speaking makes his rib move. Sherlock's expression immediately becomes worried and he checks to make sure that nothing is wrong. He probably fears that John's rib will puncture an artery. Right now john couldn't care less.

"You don't enter into hand to hand combat with a known street wrestler, honestly John," Sherlock murmurs beneath his breath, contradicting the gentle pressure of his fingertips and his concerned expression.

"You. Were. Supposed. To be. Right. BEHIND ME," John snarls.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't," Sherlock snaps.

"I hate you," John growls.

"Really? Well, I hate you, too," Sherlock retorts. They glare at each other, both of them really just fighting out of fear for what could have just happened.

"For a moment I thought you were-,"

"Yes, well, I wasn't," John interrupts him. He doesn't think he can survive hearing Sherlock's voice break when he says how he thought John might have died.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers, and his voice does break then. John doesn't want that. He wants Sherlock to pretend he wouldn't be heartbroken if something were to happen to John. He wants not to think about how he would be absolutely heartbroken were something to happen to Sherlock. The closeness that has grown between them since they started the cuddling study has its downsides.

"Shut up," John tells Sherlock, and Sherlock actually smiles, although it looks in danger of becoming a little teary. John reaches out for Sherlock's hand weakly, and Sherlock instantly grabs it in his and squeezes it tight. He raises it and presses the back of John's hand to his own lips fiercely.

"You'll be fine," he promises, as if he will personally make sure of it. It actually has a calming effect on John. Sherlock does many things, but he has never broken an important promise.

"Yes," John agrees, figuring Sherlock needs some reassurance as well.

They are interrupted by the sounds of the ambulance pulling up the alleyway, and suddenly numerous medics are surrounding them and their hands are separated.

\--

As it turns out John does have a broken rib, but he at least has escaped a concussion. Sherlock demands to be in the room as they bandage John's ribcage. His presence is enough to make John calm. He's not sure if it's because Sherlock needs him to be strong or because Sherlock just makes him strong.

Either way they are sent home and out of the hospital within an hour, with the order to come back two days later. Sherlock fetches them a cab and never stops watching John with darting eyes and fleeting expressions. John supposed he should find it annoying, but instead he finds it sort of soothing.

When he leans his head against Sherlock's shoulder on the cab ride home, Sherlock surprises him by putting an arm around him and holding him as close as his ribs will allow it. He supposes maybe the fright Sherlock had was worse than his own. After all he was not the one who saw his - his what? Best friend? Other half? His John, John decides - looking close to dead.  
It's that thought that results in John making a new territory decision when they have crawled their way up to 221B. Instead of walking on up to his own room he grabs Sherlock's hand, warm and strong in his own, and pulls them down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom. He stops in front of the door, looks at Sherlock and raises his eyebrows in question. Sherlock nods, so John opens the door and steps inside.

Normally he would categorise the way Sherlock's bedroom smells kind of dusty and a little bit like blood, and how it's cast in shadowy darkness. He would try to figure out which experiment Sherlock was doing now. But not tonight. Tonight he steers towards the bed, determined, and sits on the edge of it. Sherlock closes the door behind him but stays where he is, watching John silently.

John tries to adjust his angle so he can take off his shoes, but it doesn't seem possible to do without causing his ribs to hurt. Sherlock only lets him try once before he steps over to John and grabs his hands at work to stop them.

"Let me," he murmurs, his voice suddenly rough. So John does. He sits back and let's Sherlock pull off his left shoe, then the right, all of it done with perfect precision and a surprising tenderness.

"Stand up," Sherlock demands quietly, and John obeys. Sherlock moves his hands to John's jean's zipper and casts a glance at John's face to ask for permission. John swallows, a little nervous, but he nods. So Sherlock helps John out of his jeans before proceeding to order John to raise his arms and pulling off his T-shirt for him. Nothing but their quiet breaths can be heard in the room. It is the most sensual thing John has ever experienced and it's not even leading to sex.

Once John is down to his pants Sherlock takes a step back, and let's his hand fall from John's skin. John wills his body not to react to Sherlock's persistent gaze. To cover himself up he turns around and crawls in underneath the covers, his back to Sherlock. The sound of Sherlock changing in to his own pyjamas is for a moment the only noise in the dark room. Then the mattress gives away as Sherlock crawls in on John's left side - it was his right rib that broke. He keeps his distance from John so as not to touch him in any hurtful way.

John's eyes travel over Sherlock's face. From his dark, unwashed curls that fall into his face, to his pale skin, to his ocean blue eyes. It isn't until John's gaze falls on Sherlock's lips that he notices that Sherlock is trembling. It's only a slight tremor, but it's definitely there. John assumes it's the initial shock that must be wearing off.

"It's okay," he whisper. "I'm fine. We're fine." Sherlock nods but his trembling only gets worse, so John reaches out a hand and puts it to Sherlock's soft skinned cheek.

"Come here," he says and gestures with his eyes for Sherlock to move in closer. Sherlock looks doubtful for a second, but then he scoots in closer to John until their bodies are flush against each other, fitting like puzzle pieces. John intertwines his legs with Sherlock's and moves his hand from Sherlock's cheek to the space between his shoulder blades.

They don't talk about what happened. They don't need to. They've both realised recently how much they mean to each other. Instead of speech they communicate through touch and so John holds Sherlock close far into the night until he stops trembling and drifts into sleep.

Day 30

It's the last day of the study and both John and Sherlock are painfully aware of it. It's almost like they're trying to make up for the fact that their excuse to touch will end tomorrow by constantly touching today. It's a quiet day and while they would usually do their separate things they have been watching bad day-time-tv the entire day, lying together on the couch with a soft blanket over them.

John doesn't want it to end. He doesn't even bother to try and pretend otherwise to himself, because the ache in his heart is so persistent that he can't seem to find a way to ignore it. The problem is that continuing the physical intimacy after the study is over will come with expectations. It will need to be explained somehow, and John is not sure either of them are ready to delve into that territory. So, instead, they hold each other and try not to hurt.

It's nine in the evening when Sherlock proposes that they open the bottle of red wine that sits on the top of their fridge. They settle down on the couch with the Chinese takeaway that they order and glasses of wine to go with. Even though they're sitting up against their own separate armrest, their feet are still tangled together.

John feels the alcohol starting to take its toll about thirty minutes after they're finished eating. They finished the wine and have now gone over to a bottle of whiskey that they found in a cupboard. You wouldn't know it by looking at Sherlock that he is tipsy too, but his slightly glossy eyes give him away to John.

John tells Sherlock a story about the first time he got drunk, and the sound of Sherlock's laugh echoes through the flat, making John smile proudly because he is the cause for that sound to escape Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's laugh is infectious so John ends up giggling along, for way longer than what the story deserves, and in the end they're just giggling dumbly at each other. Once they sober Sherlock looks past John and out the window.

"The stars are out," he says.

Which is how they end up in John's room, attempting to both sit in the windowsill of the double window. John is definitely tipsy now, judging from the way he stumbles a bit in his steps. There is a ledge beneath them so they won't accidentally fall the way to the ground.

"That's Orion's Belt," Sherlock says, his words slurred, pointing at three aligning stars in the night sky. John is momentarily surprised.

"I thought you didn't know astronomy?" he asks.

"Does it really surprise you that I needed to prove you wrong?" Sherlock retorts. John supposes he can't say yes to that so he just shrugs no.

They share a comfortable silence for several minutes, and John enjoys the warmth of Sherlock's body against his where they're leaning into each other. It is Sherlock who eventually breaks the silence.

"The study ends tonight," he says. "At midnight you'll be free." He sounds regretful. John looks at the electrical clock on his bedside table behind him and sees that it's half an hour to. It provides an ache to John's heart, and he doesn't want to be reminded of it now, when they're just being happy.

"I don't think about it like that," he says. Sherlock shrugs.

"Let's not talk about it. I don't want to talk about it," John continues. He watches Sherlock's face crumble before it is put back together again, all of it happening so quickly that he doubts he even saw it.

"John, I don't know how to... I can't," Sherlock tries, but John stops him by grabbing hold of his hand.

"Shh," he whispers. "We'll... I don't know. We'll think about it later." Sherlock sends him a desperate look, and in a sudden burst of inspiration he gets off the windowsill and steps back into his room. He beckons Sherlock to follow him with a wave of his hand. Sherlock looks at him curiously, but does as he is being asked.

And then John's inspiration is kind of lost. He forgets what he imagined they'd do once they were back inside. His eyes lock with Sherlock and he sees his own terror mirrored in them, but he also sees a determination.

And then suddenly something shifts and it becomes so easy that John wonders what the issue even was in the first place. He takes those two life altering steps towards Sherlock, and they end up standing clumsily against the wall. But they don't care. None of them care as John puts his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, and Sherlock presses his to the low of John's back. 

It's unclear who closes the distance between them, but suddenly they're kissing, and John thinks there has never been anything better or more beautiful to happen in the world.

Sherlock's lips are soft but firm against his own, and their noses bump at first and it's overall pretty sloppy but it's absolutely perfect. And then Sherlock moves his hands to burry them in John's hair, and John returns it, and they're suddenly moving in perfect tandem. As soon as John tests with just a little bit of tongue against Sherlock's upper lip, said lips part to invite John in. Sherlock tastes of wine and whiskey, and for John he tastes like everything he's ever wanted. John explores Sherlock's mouth with his own tongue, and it feels so toe-curlingly good that he can't help but to moan into Sherlock mouth, eliciting an answering deep moan from Sherlock's throat.

And then Sherlock takes control and walks them towards John's bed blindly, bumping them into several things along the way. John briefly wonders how shattered his room will look tomorrow, but Sherlock's tongue licking into his mouth draws him back to reality.

Sherlock nearly puts his knee onto John’s crotch, and John accidently pulls at Sherlock’s hair too hard, but all it does is make them giggle as John continues to scoot up the bed to rest against the headboard, pulling Sherlock with him and over him. They rest their foreheads together and laugh in a way that has nothing to do with their clumsiness and everything to do with the relief of finally laying everything out in the open.

John really looks at Sherlock then, and the sight of him, face and lips flushed, curls unruly and a huge grin splitting his face in half makes John's hearth clench with love and desire. It must show in his eyes because Sherlock stops to gaze at him, looking appropriately dazed. John puts his hand up to caress Sherlock's cheek.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers. Sherlock's breath gets audibly caught in his throat.

"John," he whispers in reply, so John gives him another soft kiss, filled with all of the words he's not saying, before pulling away and pulling Sherlock into a tight embrace of relief and a mending hearts instead.

'I love you,' he wants to say, but he doesn't know if Sherlock is ready to hear it yet, so he lets his touch speak for him like they've done so many times before. So when Sherlock presses a hand gently over John's gunshot scar on his left shoulder, John thinks he understands.

Day 30 + 1

When John wakes the next morning he is alone. His head is thrumming, and he's not sure if he should take Sherlock being gone as a bad sign. He might just have decided looking at John sleeping was dull, or he might be rethinking the entirety of the night before. John really hopes it's the first.

For a moment he lies and watches the ceiling, trying to make sense of all of these new emotions. He's spent so long oppressing every romantic and sexual impulse towards Sherlock that it feels both absolutely terrifying and absolutely relieving to have it out in the open for Sherlock to see. He doesn't see how he could possibly convince anyone that he isn't madly head over heals in love with Sherlock after last night, and he doesn't want to.

Eventually he decides to just get it over with and go downstairs to face the possible confrontation. He tries to imprint how the happiness blooming beneath his superficial worry feels, in case Sherlock has changed his mind while John was sleeping.

When John enters the kitchen in the morning the kitchen table is surprisingly neat. He's sure he remembers it being very messy last night. Besides the cleaned up microscope is lying a thick file of papers.

A study in physical intimacy & resulting release of oxytocin by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, it reads.

John picks it up and flips through the file. Sherlock has written down the cuddling position and the duration, along with a personal note. Every fifth day he has written down a health statement.

September 23, Day 1  
Cuddle position: On the couch, watching the television.  
Duration: 30 minutes, exact.  
Note: Making space and adjusting to another body turns out to be difficult. I found myself tense. No positive effects have been recorded yet.

October 1, Day 8  
Cuddle position: On the couch, watching television.  
Duration: Unable to tell precisely due to falling asleep.  
Note: I found myself relaxed and enjoying the physical contact. The television became more tolerable when endured during cuddling.

October 9, Day 16  
*John away on travel with the surgery*  
Note: Found myself missing John a lot more than usual. I tried to induce oxytocin through nasal spray but no changes occurred. In conclusion it was not only a physical response but also an emotional one.

As the day number gets higher the notes get more and more personal.

Day 17  
Cuddle position: In John's bed.  
Duration: Over two hours  
Note: I find myself relieved to have John next to me again. I found myself getting irritable during our three days apart. John falls asleep after fifteen minutes. I am surprised to note that he snores during deep sleep and that I myself find the sound of it calming.

Day 22  
Cuddle position: In my own bed.  
Duration: Unable to tell due to falling asleep.  
Note: John got hurt today. I found myself a lot more emotionally unstable than I have ever felt before. I was surprised to find that physical intimacy with John during this improved the situation marginally.

John can't help but to smile but he also feels a little sad when he reads about how little Sherlock really knows about being held and cared for. If Sherlock will let him, he decides, he'll devote the rest of his life to make him fell as loved as any person ever has.  
John feels a little nervous as he catches himself in flipping to the entry of the day before.

October 23, Day 30

That's it. It's empty. John supposes it's better that way. Maybe they need to actually have a conversation about this new development for once.

He closes the file again, but holds it in his hand as he walks into the living room, starting his search for Sherlock in there. And true enough, Sherlock is sitting on the couch, his legs crossed in front of him, staring determinedly at the telly. John has learned to tell when Sherlock deliberately tries to avoid conversation he's nervous about though, and this is without doubt one of those times.

"Hey," he says softly upon entrance. Sherlock looks up at him, and while he does a good impression of seeming indifferent, John sees through it.

"You've read it?" Sherlock asks, gesturing with his eyes towards the file in John's hand. John nods, and goes to sit down next to Sherlock. He sits sideways on the couch, crossing his own legs, so he is facing Sherlock. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s knee, and watches with quiet fascination as Sherlock’s breath hitches, before he places his fingers tentatively on top of John’s. 

“Is everything messed up now?” Sherlock asks, and John immediately shakes his head.

“No.”

“What would happen if we kept doing … this?” Sherlock continues, and taps his finger once on the back of John’s hand. “Would it change us?”

“Yes,” John says this time. “It would change us. But not in a bad way. I think we would continue pretty much as always, except with more of that thing we did yesterday. If you want more of that. The upstairs bedroom might not be used as much, or yours won’t.”

“It sounds so easy when you put it like that,” Sherlock mumbles, and John doesn’t reply, but he agrees. Reality might be more complicated, but then again it might not. For a long time neither of them speak, but John rests his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“What if I hurt you?” Sherlock whispers a little later.

“What if you don’t?” John says. He curls his fingers into the hem of Sherlock’s tee, and continues, “Let’s, for a moment, pretend we aren’t us, and this is more simple than it is. Would you want me, then?”

“It’s not about wanting you,” Sherlock protests, and even in the midst of this John’s heart skips a beat, when Sherlock says, “I do want. You. Everything.” 

“But?” he asks, because he can hear the implication of it.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Try,” John says. “We’re not generic, and this doesn’t have to be.”

“So if I don’t want to call you a pet-name or make you romantic dinners or watch James Bond for hours…”

“Then that’s fine,” John says. “Except you do want to watch James Bond, because otherwise you wouldn’t have stayed for them,” he teases, and the soft smile on Sherlock’s lip reminds him why this is going to be the best decision of his life. 

“I love you, you know,” he says, and it’s so easy to finally say it, it’s so simple. It’s just the irrevocable truth. He watches as about a million emotions flash over Sherlock’s features. He’s slightly surprised when, in the end, Sherlock reacts by laughing. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know whether to be surprised, or cry, or laugh, or kiss you.” John smiles fondly and loves him. 

“This is fine, too,” he says. “It’s all fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Sherlock says. 

“You should.”

“Can I?”

“You can,” John consents. 

“I want to,” Sherlock says and the smile on his lips is so sweet John feels like his heart is going to spontaneously combust.

“Do it,” he says.

Sherlock does. And altogether it’s perfect, and John thinks that they really should’ve been doing this all along. He intertwines his fingers with Sherlock and squeezes their hands when they pull apart, saying, “You fit me, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock chuckles and kisses him again.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he says, and John’s heart is definitely swelling with love right now. 

“Mm,” he says, and kisses Sherlock’s temple, pressing his smile into the skin there. “I can certainly work with that.”

“Yeah?” Sherlock smiles.

“Until the end of time,” John says, and that’s really all there is to it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, feel free to shoot me a comment, they're better than gold and flower crowns. You can also check out my other work on this page, or find me on Tumblr at shezzaisgay.tumblr.com or on Twitter @holmestheplant
> 
> Thanks for reading


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